Fools for Lust (23 page)

I heard furtive movements underneath me. Preparations for the next ordeal.

Both my wrists and ankles were beginning to hurt, bearing the weight of my whole body. Then, they allowed the ropes holding me up to slack and I was slowly lowered to the floor. Not quite all the way. Once I was a foot or so from the ground, my buttocks made contact with the rigidly erect penis of a man. My horizontal descent was halted and I felt a woman's fingers – I knew because of her long, sharp nails digging into my flesh – pull my cheeks apart and test the lowering resistance of my anal opening now smothered with lubricating cream. The cock digging against me was manoeuvred towards my hole, directed toward its entrance like an arrow and the ropes loosened again and I was instantly impaled on the expectant penis. It hurt like hell. Felt as if my whole body was being torn apart from its very centre, excruciating agony spreading out in concentric circles, radiating outward like the sheer fires of hell. I'm sure I screamed. I can't remember. And then the man began moving inside me, up and down and up and down again and again and every outward movement felt as if my very bowels were being pulled all the way out of my body with pincers. Inside my arse, I could feel his member growing, expanding with the relentless inevitability of an exploding galaxy, pounding against the inner walls, sliding remorselessly deeper towards my heart, abetted by the lubricating cream. I could feel the lips of my sex, just a few inches above the unholy junction of my arsehole and the cock, gape wide open with every successive thrust of the guy inside me. Then, another man positioned himself, straddled me, I could faintly detect the musky odour of his sweat, more hot, warm flesh pressed against my cunt opening and swiftly moved in, brushing the still tender lips apart, which stretched as they were could offer no resistance. I had two men inside me. They found their rhythm and through the pain, I listened to my lust rising. Further hands began manipulating my nipples, twisting, pinching, pulling at them. Fingers and unknown objects roamed my exposed body. My mouth was pulled open and another cock inserted. And then a second one.

Truly fucked.

All my cavities explored.

It was some crazy scenario: the woman who services four men simultaneously.

I gave up all resistance, allowing my muscles to go slack and welcomed the shuddering invasions, disconnected my brain from the rest of my body and welcomed the mighty sensations of pleasure course through my veins, travel at the speed of light over the whole surface of my bare skin. I closed my eyes. Incandescent blackness overcame me. I beckoned it. I was just a body. An instrument of pleasure. Desire made incarnate.

The men thrust.

The men pushed against my physical limits.

The men all dug their cocks deeper than anatomy allowed.

My juices flowed. Out of control, seeping from every extremity past the attacking poles of flesh.

My lover watched.

One man came. I balanced his ejaculation on my tongue and rubbed it against the soft surface of the other man's cock still pounding my cheeks.

The second man came, and his warm jet splashed against the walls of my vagina, drowned its flow over my swollen cervix and he withdrew instantly, sucking our now mixed fluids out of my cunt onto my stomach.

The third man came in my mouth but maintained his thick cock at full stretch, forcing its way almost down my throat, and the bitter goo slithered down into my digestive system.

The fourth man still kept on pounding into me. Savagely drilling his impossibly long cock ever deeper into my rear. Jesus, it would never be the same again, would never close up, I thought, as my bowels felt all liquid, melting under his blows and I briefly imagined the purple mushroom-like tip of his penis swimming in the inner sea of my boiling shit.

Finally, he came. He roared loudly, exhaling his pleasure in a wholesome burst. The pulleys were brought into operation again and I was levered upwards off his rigid stem. It exited my gaping rear hole with an obscene plopping noise, dripping with an unholy compound of our mingled secretions.

All of a sudden, I was thirsty again.

They left me suspended for, I reckon, another ten minutes. Then the black silk scarf that obscured my vision was pulled away and my sight restored. The men were all dressed now and ritually left the room in a single file, leaving just my lover and the tall woman.

In silence, they cleaned me with a warm wet flannel.

Liberated me from the embrace of the ropes.

Then the woman left, after a gentle peck on my cheek.

‘You were wonderful,' my lover said.

Should I weep or should I cry?

‘Am I forgiven?' I asked him.

‘For now,' he answered.

He had new clothes for me. I liked them, he had chosen well but then he's always been a man of good taste. Knows my fondness for waistcoats and white tops.

As we exited the castle in Milton Keynes and walked towards our red car, he looked at me with so much goddamn affection in his eyes:

‘So?' he enquired.

‘Yes,' I confirmed. ‘Even with the pain, I did enjoy it.'

He smiled.

‘What about you?' I asked my lover.

He said nothing and kept on smiling.

As we passed the Watford motorway services half an hour later, he said to me:

‘This is only the beginning, my love. I know this dungeon in Epsom.'

I looked ahead at the road. Night was beginning to fall. Soon, we would be back in London. My hand was shaking a bit. Fear? Expectation? And inside my body the tides of lust were already rising.

When I take you to New Orleans, it will be a day in spring.

Late spring, when the weather is no longer battling it out with global warming or the hazards of Northern Europe's geography. Writing these pitiful lines today, it's already late April but there is a distinct chill in the air. Hailstones yesterday in the suburbs of our large city and even some specks of snow as I left my office the day before. Spring ain't what it used to be.

It will be a perfect day. Sun out in full glow, skies totally blue and devoid of wandering clouds to darken our mood, just the right weather to set your hormones onto a rageful, wanton path of lust.

I will wait by the gate at Heathrow to spy on your arrival, carrying my own bag, guessing once again at your appearance, the colour of your hair, the paleness of your blue eyes. Will you be wearing a skirt or black trousers or the jeans I bought you at Canal Jeans in New York on the occasion of our last adulterous escapade? And your battered denim jacket or the elegantly tapered green one you wore at JFK Airport, where I had patiently waited for you after the four-hour delay?

We will greet with a tender embrace and a chaste public kiss, still a bit shy at first although we have been lovers for over a year and a half and have fucked many times in four separate cities and three different countries. If the planes are on schedule and not messing up our carefully engineered arrangements again, we will catch the shuttle bus to Terminal 3 and book in on our flight of escape from our real lives. Leaving families, children, jobs, partially decorated houses and all the luggage of our past and present behind.

On the long flight (with a connection to catch in Chicago as no airline seemingly flies direct to New Orleans from Europe) we will exchange small talk, again strengthening our connection as I breathe in the scent of your body, slip a distracted finger through your short hair and slyly a hand into the waistband of your skirt (yes, it will be a skirt) to feel the warm, soft flesh of your arse and I will spy the disturbing onset of the cleavage created by your push up 36B bra through the V-neck opening of your black designer T-shirt.

My heart will jump every time your eyes look upon me and that radiant smile explodes from your cute lips as I crack a bad joke and play my customary self-deprecating role which I know amuses you.

This is the first time we have been together in the spring. So far, we have always been lovers in the greyness of autumn or winter. I have never seen you in summer clothes but I know already the sight will be intoxicating.

But there will be pain inside as I know you have smiled for other men since we were last together and you have given them your body, and I wasn't there and could say nothing as I have no rights over you at all, just my caring, my feelings and my deep-seated jealousy and anguish. You say that with the others it is just lust, and that I alone am your treasure, your soul and you are young and in the prime of your sexuality and can't act like a nun, surely? How easy it is for you to segregate body and soul. Me, I am just a jealous guy who wants both. Together. For ever. Or maybe you say that to every man to keep them at bay, at peace, every cock that ploughs you, fucks your mouth and more, in the back of cars in the lowlands bleak countryside of ponds, canals and tulip fields, or on dingy beds in cheap hotels hired by the hour, before they leave you again still dripping with their come and return to their business trips or wives following the healthy interruption you have become on their journey. And I know that on these occasions, you feel soiled and used, but still you see them again and again or seek more out on dating lines or the internet. You have, in the deep of night, weary heads on pillows in rooms of sin, told me tales of some of these other men, but I know all too sadly you have not told me all. There are others you have not confessed to. I talk to them myself on the internet and every word on the screen is like another stab to my heart. But I remain silent. I am too civilised, I'm the nice guy and I know that rare and damaged breed always comes last. You like to be fucked rough and hard and used like a piece of meat, because that is all they are capable of, they who cannot and will not give you any affection. Apart from the local married man who wants to leave his family for you and complicates things no end, doesn't he? Am I that much of a nuisance too? I guess those who care for you are just like little dogs, you enjoy them, tolerate their awkward feelings, they are an adequate stopgap until something better comes along, another rough diamond who will order you around, fuck your arse beyond pain, or fist you until you bleed, and then boast of it in the chatrooms to all who will listen. Oh yes, she loves it doggy-style, pretty little slut, isn't she, always comes back for more.

But all those things I will not say.

When I take you to New Orleans, we will land at Moisan, pick up our luggage from the carousel and walk out into the early evening and the moist air and the fragrant, spicy smells of Louisiana and the Delta will assault us from all points and we will be amazed at the change of climate since our morning departure from Europe. A shuttle to the quaint hotel in the French Quarter, with all my tales of the Vieux Carre and its pleasures ringing in your ears as the small coach races down Veterans Boulevard, past the Metairie exit, Loyola and later the Dome, until we cross into the city close by Harrah's Casino. You didn't really like New York, but I know this place will be more to your liking. More decadent, less impersonal, a place visibly reeking of lust and pleasure and excess.

Once in the room, tired from the long journey, our body clocks still in gentle disarray, we will kiss, and it will be paradise regained. I will undress you, feast my eyes on the beauty of your body once again, as if I ever could forget every single feature of its map, skin, moles, folds, random blemishes, perfect small breasts that fit into a man's hand, the dark spot on the underside of your left nipple, the fleshy folds of your cunt that protrude beyond the lower lips of your gash. You will be as I wanted you (you are so good at guessing a man's deepest fantasies and cater to them well: pubes shaven across your opening and trimmed very short above). I will finger you as we shower together, with my hands misbehaving with soap and towel and caresses. Dry, we will move back to the room and fuck on the bed. I will make you come, all too fast, when I go down on you, still tasting the soap from the moist opening of your engorged cunt and then enter you and self-consciously try to repress my roaring your name out loud when I come (apparently one of the other British lovers you have does likewise; thanks for the information!).

We will hit Bourbon Street.

Your eyes will be wide with wonder. Their green shade deepening like a pale ocean. The music will be swirling across the intersections. Blues here, trad jazz there, country elsewhere, hard rock on another current of wind, a hotpot of melodies and arpeggios fighting for our attention. But first, we must eat. An Oyster bar called Desire and I recall how in France after you sucked me one evening you said you could still taste the oysters in my come and how much you disliked the taste.

As we eat, thick, tasty gumbo followed by a po'boy overflowing with ingredients, we will talk quietly and reminisce about past times, delaying the present ever so delicately. The morning at the Metropolitan when viewing a few explicit drawings on Greek vases in a display case downstairs made you feel horny as hell and I, a man of convention and hesitation, failed to take proper advantage as you revealed your need while we wandered through the Oriental floor. I should have, right there and then, pulled you to the nearby men's washroom (which was large enough and clean and empty), brusquely unzipped and fucked your mouth, then pulled your jeans down and ordered you to the floor on hands and knees, rump to the fore and taken you quickly, while the heat was still coursing through your frenzied imagination. By the time we got back to our hotel room in the Flatiron District, the bus inching along down Fifth Avenue choked by traffic, the moment had already gone and all we had left was this incredible memory of lust.

When I take you to New Orleans, I will seize the moment.

I will buy fur-lined cuffs in a sex joint off Bourbon Street and attach you to the bedpost and spread you obscenely and ravage you, every thrust of my cock hitting against your cervix like a dagger, an answer to all the anonymous other cocks who have invaded you there and dirtied you and I will ask you to moan and I will refuse to stop when you complain that the sensations are becoming too much. It will be my revenge. And when I unhook you, I will lick the sweat off your brow, clean you with a small towel and allow you the respite of sleep, my beautiful whore.

In the morning we will have our beignets and coffee and orange juice at the Café du Monde and you will have your first sight of the mighty Mississippi River and we will stroll hand in hand through the busy food market with its colours and smells in full bloom. In the crafts area beyond, I will find the stall where you can purchase intimate clip-on jewellery which you will be required to wear at all times, a gentle pinch against your parts, a symbol of the fact that for these short few days you belong to me. I will allow you to select the prettiest and threaten you jokingly, and attach it to you there and then in full view of the market crowds and retailers. At the Riverwalk Mall, I will buy you a new thin dress and order you to wear it for the rest of our first full day, banning your underwear to my pocket, knowing that under the thin material you are exposed, open, your cunt lips smooth and accessible at the whim of my desire. Your back against the sun, your legs and the sweet shape of your body can be seen in awesome transparency. And if any one sees you thus, I know that you are my woman and I am proud and male and so damn full of vanity, for one who knows you only are with me because I can pay for these trips and buy you presents and am basically harmless. I'm just the one who's convenient to be around and your heart and body are still there back at petrol station near Alkmaar where he picked you up in his rental car and drove to an isolated wood, ordered you to strip and fucked you like a dog on the backseat and then pushed your lips down onto his still juicy uncut cock and had you lick him clean of his juices now mingled with your own and had you squat in front of the car lights and watched you pee and somehow clean yourself of his seed before driving you back to the station and not even kissing you on the cheek in guise of farewell until the next time he would need an exotic girl with a quaint accent to fuck. As you get back home in the evening, you notice a stain which smells strongly of stale cunt and cock juice on the back of your denim jacket that he had placed under your arse so as not to stain the car's leather seat. Your back hurts, your labia are sore from his relentless thrusts and you have a knot in your throat. But when he calls next, you will answer his summons. The following day, you even send him a text message to thank him.

And, in sunny and humid New Orleans I know that every hour we spend together will just add poignancy to my inner pain and that I will fall even more deeply in love with you. I will watch you dance in a bar, my lovely young girl whose smile warms up the whole beer-smelling joint and note the envious look on the faces of the other men there who try and glimpse a sight of your thigh or arse as the dress twirls around your legs, one maybe even guessing that you are wearing nothing and curious or attracted to the obvious state of your wantonness. If he comes up to us or me, I know that I will ask him to join us for a drink and I will let him dance with you, observing his full hands gripping your rump through the thin material of the dress and pressing the hardening bump in his crotch against you as he draws you into steps of lust to the strains of the over-amplified bass guitar of the blues band on the elevated stage. I will look into your eyes as you return with him to our table and read your acquiescence and desire through your flushed cheeks.

We will walk back towards our hotel; in the elevator to the floor he will kiss you, his tongue invading your mouth, asking me jovially if I don't mind. In our bedroom, I will undress you for him and watch as you get to your knees and take him into your mouth. He will appear no doubt bigger and harder than me and you will gag but the pressure of his rough hands in your hair will not relax. He will compliment me on your cock-sucking skills and then throw you onto the bed and mount you, his thick shaft impaling you in one swift movement. You will be very wet and he will slide in and out with no problem. Under him, your whole body will shake uncontrollably as he fucks you with metronomic regularity, pawing your small breasts, pulling at your short dark blonde hair to raise your head to me level where he has ordered me naked too, to fuck your mouth as he takes you from behind and every slap of his body and balls against your pale arse cheeks travels through your womb, up through your body, bypassing your heart of course, and all the way up to your mouth where I now reside. I feel as if he's fucking me, and you are just an instrument in between us. He discharges inside you and I feel the tremor electrify your body. You look up at me and you have never been so beautiful. We separate. He lights a cigarette and offers us one, which we both decline. We exchange small talk, wet strangers on a hotel bed, the smell of sex still floating across the room. He ascertains I'm British and questions my motivations in my allowing him to fuck you. Raises himself menacingly and calls me a faggot and has me suck his still tumescent cock clean before he finally departs, irritated by our distinct lack of conversation. This will be in New Orleans and the sight of another man burying his penis into your soft pink folds is one I know I will never forget. Now I know what it's like when you are with all the other men. I have become your accomplice. Your impotent pimp.

When I will question you the following morning, all you will say is that it was very exciting and that you are still horny thinking about what happened. You will not exclude a repeat performance should the right opportunity arises, you confess with no shame, a slave to your baser instincts. I will nod.